Chapter Nine #2
The movement brought about a curious slackening, as though the strength in his legs had momentarily forgotten its purpose. He adjusted his stance, slow and deliberate, until the sensation passed enough to be ignored.
He did not touch her; he would not presume to do that. He stood only near enough that, should she open her eyes, he would be within her sight.
Her breathing was uneven but steady. A loose strand of hair lay against her cheek, displaced by nothing more than her own movement. He noticed it—and found, to his quiet irritation, that his hand had flexed before he stilled it again at his side.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said softly, unsure whether he wished her to hear him or not. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids stirred—once.
Then again.
Darcy held himself motionless. The faint weakness returned to his calf muscles, accompanied now by a dull heaviness through his shoulders, as though standing had become a conscious effort.
Her lashes trembled, and her mouth shifted, as though shaping a word that had not yet found its way free.
Darcy’s breath shortened despite his will. “Miss Elizabeth?” he said gently. “If you can hear me, try to open your eyes.”
She stirred… and wide brown eyes fluttered open to him.
Elizabeth became aware of light before sound.
Not the blaze of it—only a pale intrusion through her lashes, as though the day had found a way in without asking leave. She opened her eyes and closed them again at once, fortifying herself against the faint tilt that followed.
When she tried again, the room was quite right again.
A bed. A familiar ceiling. The small fire in the grate, reduced to embers. And beside her—
Mr Darcy.
He stood near enough that she did not need to turn her head to see him. Not looming. Not withdrawn. Simply there, as if he had been so for some time.
Her mouth was dry. “I… beg your pardon,” she said, the words soft and uncertain, but her own. “I fear I am very ungracious company.”
“You are awake,” he said. The relief in his voice was unmistakable—and instantly checked. “Do not trouble yourself to speak if it costs you.”
She tested the instruction by drawing a breath. The ceiling wavered, then flattened again. “I am not hurt,” she said. It seemed important that he understand that much. “Only… unsteady.”
“So I was told.” He paused. “You were found alone. On the eastern rise.”
The words stirred something sharp behind her eyes. Not pain—memory. The hedges. The quiet that had not been quiet at all.
“I went walking,” she said slowly. “The morning was very fine.” She frowned, annoyed by how thin the explanation sounded even to her own ears. “I did not mean to go so far.”
“And yet you came more than three miles from Longbourn. On foot.”
“Yes.” Her fingers tightened against the coverlet. “I do not know why.”
He did not contradict her.
“There was a place,” she said. “Just there—where the path bends. I have passed it a dozen times. But this time…” She faltered, searching for language that would not slide away from her. “It felt wrong. As though I had stepped where I ought not to have done, though I could not say how I knew.”
Darcy’s hand moved—then stopped. He clasped it behind his back instead.
“Were you frightened?”
Frightened? She considered the word. Then shook her head, faintly. “Only… wrung out. As though the air had decided to leave me.” Her gaze lifted to his face. “And then I remember nothing more.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It was held—carefully, deliberately—by the man standing beside her bed.
“You are safe now,” he said at last.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, gathering herself. When she opened them again, the room remained steady. Darcy had not moved.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, quietly. “Why are you here?”
For a moment, he did not answer. His thumb brushed unhappily against his fist, and his mouth reshaped itself two or three times. “Because I was nearest,” he said at last.
Elizabeth forced another breath, heavy as a stone lifted from the earth. “I am…” She meant to say well. Or grateful. Or something that would send them away so the room would stop spinning. But the word dissolved the moment it left her tongue. “I am…”
She never finished it.
Sleep caught her mid-syllable, pulling her under so swiftly she did not feel her head sink back into the pillows.
Miss Elizabeth drifted back into shallow sleep, her breathing evening into a rhythm that was gentler than before. The room settled with her, not into rest, but into a watchful stillness that closed in upon Darcy from every side.
Seeing her so unmoving maddened him beyond reason.
He had met her only twice before; he had no claim upon her, no history that justified the tightness in his chest or the restless pull to remain where he stood.
And yet the longer he stayed, the more pronounced the weakness became, subtle but persistent, as though something in him were being drawn outward and spent.
This was not propriety. Nor concern alone.
He took a step back, then another, compelled less by thought than by the certainty that lingering would cost him more than he was prepared to examine.
Darcy turned and left the chamber.
The corridor received him with cooler air and a welcome distance.
He drew a steadying breath just as footsteps sounded at the far end.
Bingley came toward him at a brisk pace, colour still high from exertion.
Close behind followed Mr Bennet, one hand on the banister as though he had taken the stairs too quickly, and Miss Bennet—her bonnet crooked, her face pale with worry.
“Darcy,” Bingley panted, “how is she?”
Mr Bennet did not speak. He simply watched Darcy with a stillness so grave that Darcy felt every word he shaped must be exact.
“She wakes for moments only,” Darcy said. “Not clearly. Her thoughts wander, and she drifts away again. Mr Jones finds no injury to the body, but he believes she may have fallen or taken a sudden fright.”
Mr Bennet swallowed, the sound audible. “May I see her?”
“Of course.” Darcy stepped aside at once. “But gently, sir. She is—” He searched for the right word. “Easily overwhelmed.”
Mr Bennet did not wait for more. He pushed open the chamber door and went directly to his daughter’s bedside. Darcy followed only far enough to be out of the way. Miss Bennet crossed the room quickly, her composure cracking only when she reached her sister’s side.
“Lizzy,” she whispered, gathering her sister’s hand between her own. “We are here, and you are safe.”
Miss Elizabeth stirred faintly, her brow tightening, though she did not wake.
Mr Bennet lowered himself into the chair beside the bed. His hand hovered over his daughter’s on the coverlet before finally resting upon it with a care so tender it seemed almost unrecognizable in the man. Gone was the playful sarcasm, the easy indolence—what remained was a father nearly undone.
Darcy turned away from the intimacy of that moment, his own unease sharp in his chest.
Miss Bennet glanced toward him then. “Papa,” she said softly, “perhaps… perhaps Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley might tell you how they found her. I will stay with Lizzy.”
Mr Bennet did not move.
Miss Bennet tried again, her tone very mild. “Papa, I shall not leave her. Not for an instant. But you must hear all that they know. Please, Papa, at least until she wakes and we can take her home.”
A long moment passed. Then Mr Bennet nodded once—short, jerking, as though agreeing cost him something—and rose. His eyes never fully left his daughter.
Before he could step back, Mr Jones cleared his throat. “She must not be moved today. Not until we understand what brought on this collapse. A journey in a carriage would be ill-advised; the jostling alone could cause harm.”
“Yes,” Miss Bennet said at once. “Of course. She will remain here until she is stronger.”
Bingley straightened with immediate resolve. “Then her comfort must be secured. Miss Bennet, may I send for your things? We shall have a room prepared for you adjoining this one.”
Her eyes softened with gratitude. “You are very kind, Mr Bingley. Thank you.”
At that moment, footsteps clipped sharply in the passage, and Miss Bingley appeared in the doorway, one hand pressed to her chest as though she had run the entire length of the house.
“Is it true?” she said, breath quick. “I am told Miss Elizabeth Bennet is taken ill, and that I am just now hearing of it?” Her gaze flicked at once to Bingley, then to Darcy, as if they had conspired to keep the news from her.
Miss Bennet rose slightly from her seat. “My sister had a fall, I believe. We are not entirely certain what occurred. But she is resting now.”
Miss Bingley swept forward, arranging her expression into something poised and sympathetic. “Then allow me to sit with her. It is the least I can do as hostess. Miss Bennet, you must be exhausted—pray let me relieve you.”
Miss Bennet blinked at her, too polite to challenge her outright but not yielding an inch of ground. “You are very considerate, Miss Bingley, but I cannot leave her.”
A faint crack appeared in Miss Bingley’s smile. “Indeed. Well. If you require anything, I am at your disposal.”
Mr Bennet exhaled shakily and stepped toward the door. Darcy moved at once to assist him, though the gentleman waved him off and steadied himself against the jamb.
“Mr Bennet,” Darcy said quietly, “if you will come with us, we shall tell you everything we know.”
Bingley offered his arm. “This way, sir.”
Mr Bennet nodded but glanced back once more at his daughter—his gaze raw with a fear he could not disguise—before he allowed the two younger men to lead him from the room.